We'll Make a Bed of Forest Leaves
by HeathyrFeathyr
Summary: How far can he run? How much can he sacrifice? Gisborne promised her a new life, and after he freed her from jail he promised they would start over. He will run, he will pay, he will kill - no matter what, he will start over. (Periodic detailed violence and language.)
1. Take Care

This story is inspired by a poem I was shown by a friend, written by Michael Faudet. I do not own or claim any ownership to the poem or characters herein. Here is the poem:

**Such pretty things**

**you said to me –**

**Unbutton me**

**some more.**

**For I am yours**

**to take tonight**

**upon this forest floor.**

**Let's make a bed**

**in autumn leaves,**

**and leave**

**no leaf unturned**

**Beneath these trees**

**please teach me,**

**please –**

**To learn**

**a love**

**unlearned.**

**- Michael Faudet**

"Lucy, come on, kitty, kitty."

Rain pounded down across England, streaking the deep dark still of night. Soft flickers of candle light still spotted the windows of cottages of huts as the people of Nettlestone prepared their beds.

"Lucy! Here kitty, Lucy!"

The shout of water slamming into mud rivalled the noise of ankle deep rivers pushing down the roads and drowning out yards and plants throughout the village. Then through the veil of darkness punched a small shadow that darted for her voice out cowardice and love, and very quickly the cat was scooped up and held tightly. Lucy was dripping from each paw, her gray fur matted down with rain, her eyes bewildered by the severity of the storm. She was quickly eased, though, by the tenderness of her owner; the way her hands always pet her softly and the way she cooed as if speaking to an infant.

"Poor thing, look at you, you're a drowned rat!" She noted the light blue fabric of her gown grow darker as the wet cat soaked through the belly of her clothes. The coldness crept like a vine up her ribs and crawled across her shoulders, reaching around to nip at her spine. With a shiver she glanced down the lane to notice several figures begrudgingly shifting about on the horizon. They appeared in the same texture as the looming shadows one's mind creates when surrounded by a dark room, except these ones carried covered torches that pierced the night with hazing oranges. Her green eyes squinted in what there was of light to make out what was happening yet there was no chance she could see or hear anything in this overflowing storm.

Defeated, she turned and opened the front door to the hovel to call it a night. As she whipped around to shut it she noticed one of the shadows edging up to her porch. Her fingers clutched a bit tighter on the cat's belly as the shape neared; no matter how close it got no color or shape could be deciphered from the background. It wasn't until the tall man was actually before her, torch in hand, that she could see it was only one of the Sheriff's workers – Sir Guy of Gisborne, to be exact. No one could ever say they were relieved to see him, but she did feel a break in realizing the fanciful and childish fear of demons were not the shadows lurking down the street. Some would still call those men demons, though, just ones in human flesh.

"Is everything alright?" Gisborne asked, "We heard shouting." His words described concern, and yet his strong jaw and monotone voice noted only a script of feigned worry. He did not want to get called out on letting a crime happen a block away from him for his own name's sake, not her defense. It took her a puzzled moment to reply.

"Shouting? Oh, no… I was calling for the cat to come in from the rain." She gave a light smile and shrugged. Guy's icy eyes looked down at the animal before rolling full circle in disgust – what a waste of time. "Is everything alright down there?" He followed her motion to the workers in the distance. Gisborne blinked several times and averted his gaze before looking back at her.

"The Sheriff requires new storage for provisions. It's nothing you or your lot need to be concerned about."

"Must be hard working in this weather. My goodness, you're going to catch cold – you take care of yourself out there." She wore worry on her brow with these words, which perplexed Sir Guy. Why should she care about their welfare if they're just builders? He noticed her creamy white skin crinkle up in goosebumps to protect her from the icy storm, her slim arms twitching with a shiver… He did not quite know how to feel about her freezing herself just to speak with him. All he could think was, _why?_

"It is a man's work, we will get it done." Gisborne let a tiny grin flash for a moment to return her kindness.

"Well, if it gets too cold and you'd like some warm barley tea, you come on back and ask for me."

"Who?"

"Sorry?"

"Who do I ask for…?" His low voice tattered off into a silly chuckle. Guy felt captive to a giddy schoolboy who was charging around with excitement from the attention of a pretty classmate.

"Oh, now, where are my manners? Beatrice – my name is Beatrice, daughter of Edgar Howell." With sheepishness the young lady set down the cat indoors and extended a hand to shake. Guy made eye contact with her as he slipped off a worn glove and took her palm, raising her hand to give it a light kiss.

"Goodnight, Beatrice." He smiled. As she shut the door Gisborne pounded his head into the side of the house. _What_ on earth was that?

He realized he had reached the point of being simply delusional. Ever since Marian flew away to the forest he felt a loss of direction, a loss of himself. Now, like the starved stray dog that he was, he chased and clawed for the morsels and scraps of attention he could find from anybody on the street. Guy had tucked away the fact that Vaisey would always dote on him in exchange for service; he was fine with lying to himself to believe it was affection. Guy hid the truth he already knew deep inside his coat, under his ribs, in his own heart where he dare not look.

The months without Marian were filled with as much drink and courtesans his body could handle – after all, that's attention, isn't it? He had always known the answer was no. But now in this moment he knew he could not break away from the first natural emotion he had felt in so so long. He had to decide whether it was okay to flee his shell of hurt and angst… No. No, it was not safe. It was not smart. It was not going to happen. He threw on a poker face and trudged back into the shower of rain to bark orders. In this weather, he did not allow himself to even feel the water on his skin.


	2. Zacchaeus

Weeks had passed since the Sheriff's provisions shed had been established in Nettlestone, meaning there were weeks that Robin Hood had a chance to plot a heist. It was much like leaked oil creeping towards a flame; only a matter of time before an incident.

"Would you relax," Robin chirped as he swept brush away from his face, "this will be a piece of cake!"

"I'm just saying, it could be a trap. Why _isn't_ it a trap, Robin, hmm?"

"Because, Much, it just isn't."

"I'm not trying to be funny or nothin'," Allan butted in as he sped up to catch their heels, "but we have fallen into lots of traps."

"Would you all just shut up! Allan, go to your post!" The leader commanded as they pressed into the border of Nettlestone.

The bandits cloaked themselves within the edge of the forest until a congregation of citizens appeared to blend them into the crowd. Hood let out a cry like a nightingale to signal his group to flank forward, and they followed. Like clockwork each member achieved their task: Will and Allan sawed an opening into the rear of the building whilst Djaq and Marian provided a shrub to cover the hole the size of a crouching man. Robin and his partner staged lookout whilst Little John prepared for catastrophe. Once inside, Robin siphoned out monies and foods down a conveyor belt of outlaws until the back of the goods were taken. Inside remained the front façade of items so it did not look suspicious upon general glance. He slipped out and ensured his men, and women, had escaped without a trace into the leaves.

Robin adjusted his hood to keep out sharp sunlight and wandering eyes as he twisted down the road to a cottage. He tapped on the window, as was arranged, on the residence of his informant. As the knob clicked open he slipped inside and beamed. His ally may be old, but he was certainly useful. The short man's hair was mortally wounded in the combat against gray, the brown dissolving seemingly every minute. But his eyes were full of adventure.

"Edgar my friend, thank you. This is for your service and… for the next hint you have for us?" Robin retrieved a leather sack the size of his palm with golden rewards inside. Edgar patted his shoulders and let the rebel back to his bedroom where there were smuggled records of Vaisey's next movements of payment for Prince John's troops.

"These should cover the next two weeks, Robin. Please, take them with you."

"England is in your debt, my friend."

"England is on a sick bed, and only we have the apothecary to mend her." The informant assured the former Lord of Locksley. As he opened his mouth again, a rapping on the door came to boom the house with silence. Edgar paced himself to the door. "Sir Guy!" he announced loudly, hoping to send the hint that the outlaw needed to flee – now. Luckily, he did just that. Robin scooped up an armful of papers and wormed his way out the window before Gisborne even stepped foot inside.

"Is this a bad time?" Guy added, perhaps looking for an excuse to escape. He was so sure this was the right thing to do until he actually followed through. Now he felt his lungs become dragged down with cement. Robin peeked behind him, wary that there could be trouble for poor Edgar, but he did not see any guards or malice lingering with the man in black.

"Of course not," Edgar meekly donated a smile to his enemy, "Beatrice! You have a visitor!" He smeared away the sweat of his nervous palms as his daughter appeared from a back room, her hands dripping a thick red.

"Sir Guy!" she said with surprise creeping in. She raised an eyebrow when the only answer she got was astonishment on his behalf.

"You – you're hurt!" Gisborne frowned with his lips apart.

"What? No, no, no! I'm a cloth-dyer," Beatrice laughed heartily before grabbing a distressed towel. It certainly did not look clean, but her hands were as good as new before she approached him. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh," he said as his eyes drifted around. Scattered across the dirty ground was evidence of poverty and humility. Straw had been strewn through the halls; likely her dumb cat pulled it from the beds and trailed it everywhere. The most expensive things he could find were a large cooking pot, a cross above the door, and Beatrice's clothes. Likely she can bargain for them if she works alongside cloth makers. Guy was a whirlpool of feelings as he knew he should be disgusted. He was. But he also found a way to see her kindness over her simplicity. Maybe… no. He had come here to prove to himself the stupid whisper that urged him to return was for naught.

"Sir Guy?"

"Ah, yes. The barley tea. You, um, you had offered me tea. I thought, perchance, we could. But I see you are busy."

"Nonsense. I was just cleaning up." She grinned and began to work water from a barrel into the pot. With a small grunt the brunette knicked a flint and ignited the fire with which to heat the tea. Gisborne silently drifted towards a window. His skin felt itchy and shrunken, as if washed on the wrong cycle, and now his body ached to hatch free of it. He was uncomfortable here. A man of his nobility did not belong in this lowly home, nor did a man of his deeds deserve such kindness.

"You know," Beatrice remarked as she spooned out honey, "I have never offered tea to a man who waits for the rain to stop, then another three weeks to actually come drink it."

"You offer tea to a lot of men, then?"

"I believe that is my business." She coolly joked with a sly wickedness that could not hide her bubbling giggle. "But I will have you know all the men of Lancashire rave about it to this day."

"Is that so?" the corner of Guy's mouth curled up at her wit. It reminded him of the fire he craved in Marian. Beatrice motioned for him to sit at the small wooden table that was nestled against the wall and he complied, sliding his hand along the round edge of it as she sat across form him, two cups of barley tea in hand.

"I see you didn't drown in your shed." She mentioned after silent drinking. Guy mildly shook his head and went back to looking out the window. He was briefly distracted as Lucy the cat dragged herself across his leg on her way to the kitchen, then returned to himself. Beatrice twirled a finger through her auburn curls before bringing up anything else.

"So, Sir Guy, what is it you –"

"Why me?" he declared, shooting his blue eyes into her.

"What?"

"Why are you so kind to me? What do you want from it?" the muscles in his cheeks tightened as his jaw locked in hostility.

"I want nothing more than to be polite, why should that be a chore? You came to me freezing. Was I supposed to ignore you?"

"Yes."

"Well I guess I'm not allowed to have the neighbor boy help me garden vegetables then, either. I'm sorry to be decent to you. If you hate courtesy so much, then leave." She sat herself even straighter than before with a sourness across her. Her chest stood still with the swollen breath of being rustled. Gisborne, though, did not move nor did he release his stare; she could feel him watch each movement in her face.

"That was uncalled for," He eventually answered and let his eyes tumble down to what was left of his barley tea, "I just do not experience kindness such as yours from strangers." He immediately clammed back up after realizing he was about to show himself and speak freely, desperately clawing for more leather to bolster the hide between her and his human heart.

"Well, you should. I mean, it's just like in the bible with Zacchaeus, you know? Be kind to those who do wrong or have terrible jobs. People fear you for what you have to do, not who you are." She did not notice that his nod was insincere – what reason could Gisborne possibly find for picking up a bible or showing up to a church? He had no shroud of a clue what she was talking about, but he did feel guilty for her naivety. If anything, his job was much more angelic than who he was as man; everyone had a right to fear his sadism.

But perhaps that was his answer to the question that gnawed on his organs like a cancer for the past several days; the most pure solution to the complex and painfully heavy _why_ he could not add up. Because she was naïve, that's why, she's a silly young girl without an idea about life in her head. Perhaps sheltered, perhaps stupid, but overall innocent. Now he could rest his weary mind.

His attention was snapped away when a sharp knock came to the front door. Beatrice glanced at Guy before opening it and was greeted by a minion dripping in chainmail.

"Hello, m'lady. I'm looking for Sir Guy of Gisborne."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Guy burned up in an instant as he took one large step to the porch. One of his workers had seen him in a moment of weakness, doing something stupid and out of character. Something maybe even defined as wrong.

"Sir Guy," he gave a small salute, "The Sheriff has asked for you to personally escort him around the provision sheds here and in Clun."

Edgar drifted into the room unnoticeably with a quill in hand. Both Beatrice and Gisborne had their back to him and did not notice his scramble for parchment to write on.

"He has already examined the shed in Locksley but does not feel it is safe to go to the others alone… excuse me?" The armored man broke off as he gently nudged Beatrice out of the way to address her father. Edgar stood up straight and smiled with the calmness of an elderly man. He slipped a cookbook out and added the sheet into the collection of foodstuffs, claiming it was nothing more than a pudding recipe he had just dreamt up.

"I believe if we use a different kind of lard it will perk the flavor right up, don't you, Beatrice?"

"Sir, I'd like to see the document." The guard nagged with the hint that his patience was melting. Guy, though, had a better plan. He snatched the book from Edgar and began tearing through pages.

"Why would you even discuss Sheriff's orders in public, you moronic bastard?" He growled until coming across an interesting sheet with notes scribbled and hasty maps sketched out. "What is this?"

"I don't know, first time I'm seeing it." Edgar lied with a lighthearted tone.

"Sir Guy," the guard withdrew a dagger, "it has all the travel routes of Prince John's gold on it."

"Father?" Beatrice whispered.

"This is not good for either of you." Gisborne's man snarled as he roughly grabbed Edgar by the collar. He called out to other soldiers outside as Beatrice's crystal green eyes welled up with tears. It reminded Guy of how the lush green grass was drowned under so much rain only weeks ago. His anger tuned out her desperate cries to her father, demanding it not be true.

Without a word Gisborne took one of his henchman's pairs of handcuffs, worn down and stained with fear and resistance, and clasped it onto Beatrice's left wrist. She shot shocked bewilderment from her gaze to his, and he never looked away. She was sobbing, breaking, confused. She was also beautiful, and probably innocent. As the dark scenes of arrest Guy is so accustomed to surrounded them he knew he could not let this happen to her. His prison is hell, it changes people, scars them with melted flesh and mutated hearts. He would not let himself hurt her. Not like he did Marian. Not again.


	3. Empty Facade

The smell was so pungent, so thick, so sour that it had begun to make prisoners immune to any odor after a long period of time. Even as Beatrice sniffled her tears back her sinuses had been so rotted the stench didn't even matter.

"I just don't understand _why_ you had to do it!" she said, her voice broken up by crying.

"Beatrice, I told you to stop being so stupid. So trusting. Now you see how bad these people are, this is what they want to do to England! It's not hard, silly girl. Outlaws are good and law is bad, get it through your head." Edgar venomously bit at her. His accusations and name calling only hurt her more. It's not that Edgar didn't love his daughter, but how many years would it take for her to get a brain in her head? She wasn't much of an intelligent girl. As a matter of fact, just the other day she had mixed up her recipes and scrubbed the floors with adhesive instead of soaps.

"Well, I hope your good cause is worth putting me in prison, father! You're so selfish!" Beatrice exclaimed before crawling to the opposite corner of her cell, away from Edgar's confinement. At the top of spiraling stairs voices were heard leaking down the steps to the dank and musty dungeon. The only light available was rusty haze from lit torches in intervals on the walls. From around the corner appeared Guy of Gisborne, a handful of henchmen, and a short man dragging a floor-length coat behind him.

"So, you did a bit of treason, hmm?" The gray-haired man teased as he leant against Edgar's cell, "Just a teeny bit? Morsels of info here and there? Yeah?" he hosted sinister laughter that shook each prisoner's confidence loose from their bones. Beatrice watched as the man they called Sheriff barked and gnawed and swallowed up her father across the hall. She rotated her wrists in the D-shaped handcuffs to stretch out the soreness. Poisonous spores of threats glided through the hall as Vaisey grew more and more resentful of Hood's ally by the second. Eventually he banged on the cage and turned to the daughter.

"And you," the sly man gleamed, a sapphire shining from his rotting teeth, "my dear. What is it you did?" his voice was singing as if reading a child's book.

"Nothing." Guy rebutted for her.

"She was in the home with the other one sir, he kept them in a cookbook. She had to know." A guard interjected.

"I know nothing!" she cried, "why would I know what that was?"

"So you want me to believe that if you knew something, you would tell me?"

"… why wouldn't I?" she gave him a puzzled glance that made the Sheriff laugh. Vaisey crouched down in front of her with a wicked aura that pushed all air aside.

"How can my records be in your book, but you don't see them?" he bitterly spat.

"My lord, I'm a twenty year old girl, I can't read. That book was my mum's and I kept it when she died."

"Not like she could read if you taught her. She's dumb as a rock, Sheriff, I swear, she knew nothing." Edgar added in. Hotness swelled in the girl's face as she was jabbed at by her father again. This gave Vaisey incredible amusement whilst Guy's knuckles went white from his fists. How could everyone be so cruel to a girl who was actually innocent? He took a moment to remember everyone he had maimed who claimed innocence… he began to wonder for the first time if they were right. Either way, it did not detract from the fun of seeing crimson blood seep into the crevices of stone floors. But Beatrice was kind, and the only person Gisborne had met without a natural resistance to him and his army. The Sheriff did a quick double take between his right hand man and the prisoner. Chestnut curls, wide-eyed, damsel in distress… it did not take him long to figure out what was running through Guy's head.

As the men headed to supper, the Sheriff pounced on his hunch. He began the dance by humming a tune Marian was known to sweetly do around the garden. Once he figured Guy was uncomfortable enough we went for the kill.

"You know she's not Marian, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"That girl. In there. The 'oh boo-hoo I'm pretty and helpless oh Sir Guy!' That one. She's not Marian."

"You're right. She's committed fewer crimes than Marian ever had and yet you are treating her worse than you ever treated –"

"Gisborne, let it go! No one will love you! They can't, you are undesirable. When will that make sense?" Vaisey bit his tongue and drew in a sharp breath as Guy looked away. It was a form of art to know which nerve to strike next, much like playing piano, one key at a time to achieve a melody. "You don't need their love, my boy. They are but lepers! Here you have money, power, fame… isn't that what you want?" He placed a hand on the man in black but Guy quickly tugged away.

"Does it have to be one or the other?" he muttered.

"She is only in your head because she looks so much like Marian. She is just like her, minus all the whining and stubbornness, and where's the fun in that, hm? Throw her away like you do the other prisoners. It will be easier than you think." With a reptilian smile Vaisey casually began to proceed to his food. Guy, though, could not shake his words. What if Beatrice is like Marian but without all the bad features? He doesn't want some wild horse to train, he wants a woman. Could he have one?

It didn't matter, he figured. He is by no means strong enough to leave what he has, to abandon his vices. His addictions to violence and greed were like sirens that called to him, their warm and shapely bodies longing to hold him, their serenades luring him with magnetic strength, their breasts so soft to lie upon in utter despair… He was the emptiest façade of all. One of the most powerful men in England and he did not have the power or gall to handle his own life. He knew it to be true. With this depressing thought, the man of leather decided to go instead for a liquid supper up his chambers. There he spent the evening drinking, swearing, and one time even crying, into the night.


	4. It Looked So Easy

Sunlight shot down like lasers through the leafy canopy and awoke Sir Guy as he felt their heat cook into his thin and tired eyelids. Although refusing to open his eyes, Gisborne stirred himself awake with great resistance from his own mind. He felt a comforting coaxing inside to sleep some more, to fade off, to lie there with a heaviness so thick he would practically be dead. He remained up, though, once he realized he was in danger.

Guy instantly felt raw damage to his stomach; it was as if a battering ram had pounded into his flesh and bruised up the organs. At the same time he had a strong urge to roll over and vomit. When he did decide to look around him the hot sun seared into his vision like acid and clamped onto his headache like a vice. Gisborne's big blue eyes adjusted and he could take in where he was – Sherwood Forest. He drank a deep air into his chest. _Hood,_ he initially thought. Surely he was lying on the cold leaves of the moist ground because the outlaws had dragged him out and beat him senseless; when he touched his face, though, he felt no blood, no scar, nor a cut. Glancing over he noticed a copper colored dress curled up on the forest floor a few meters away with a petite girl tucked inside of it. All he could see were auburn braids, small cloth shoe covered feet, and anger. Had Robin Hood resorted to this much brute force over stupid provision lots?

Curiosity dragged the ailing man over to the other victim. He crawled himself lazily to her side as the fogginess slowly dissipated from his head. He swept aside fly away strands of hair to see that it was Beatrice lying unconscious under the shade of a high towering tree. Resting on her cheek was a deep wine colored bruise that seeped up into her lower left eye. Guy sat up against the hefty trunk of one of the nearby trees and began to prop her up against his chest. Beatrice hummed awake as Gisborne quickly looked around the grounds, his attitude like that of a scared and cornered animal. His left hand slid down to instinctually cradle a dagger before Hood's men could return for another brawl. He flinched when Beatrice reached up and ran a hand on his cheek, her other arm snaking around him for a hug, and grinned at him.

"We are truly free." She whispered with a dash of giddiness as Guy's muscles all shrunk up. Her touch was alarming to him; it felt very welcome as he had been craving intimacy like water, but by the same token he was immensely startled by the suddenness and forward attitude she had. He took her hand off his face.

"Are you okay? Where are you hurt?" his baritone notes were aimed at her whilst he still played lookout with his eyes.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she causally replied, "this is the only hit he got in."

"Robin Hood will pay for this." Gisborne connected his eyes to hers with sincere promise. Beatrice, though, screwed up her face.

"Robin Hood is real? Like, he's and actual person? Not a story?"

"I wish that was the case. But they are the men that attacked us –"

"What?"

"Last night, they had to have –"

"Look, I know I may not be brilliant," she sat herself up and distanced their chests, "but I'm not forgetful. I know what happened and I can't imagine why you would lie about it, but not being honest with me is the worst way for us to start this thing."

"What thing?" Guy was sensing an itch of irritation creep up his spine. He had been dragged out of the castle somehow, weakened, and now he awakes to a silly girl's delusional gibberish? Her olive green eyes peered right through the back of his head.

"I knew it." Beatrice let out a heavy breath and shook her head. She pushed herself away from him and stood, rustling the blanket of foliage on the ground as she took several steps to a different trunk.

"You tell me what the hell is going on right now."

"I am just never good enough," a sob came out after hesitation, "you know? Who was I to think a guy like you could really believe I was worth it –"

"I will not play your juvenile games; I do not have time for this! You want to cry and complain, go home. Go whine to your delinquent father. The grown up here needs to fix this." Gisborne bitterly roared.

"You know what? Most people are nasty drunks, but you, you are a disgusting sober man. You are vile and poisonous, alcohol brings out the only good in you at all!" she retorted back with redness in her face. As Gisborne opened his mouth he did concede that part of her was right. The last thing he could remember was sulking in his own quarters, a cup of cider in hand. Surely he didn't drink that much, did he? After a mental tally he lost count at six tall mugs of perry cider.

"Shit." He murmured to himself. Guy choked and coughed and suffocated on the large amount of his own pride he had to swallow before approaching Beatrice. "You said you know what happened… are we in danger? Did I… did I hurt you?" he motioned to her swollen cheek.

"No, you saved me. But we may be in trouble. We are runaways now…" she could see the confusion on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I guess I will start at the beginning…"

Moonlight was swallowed up in the dense black clouds of night at Nottingham castle. The light had been gobbled up almost as instantly as all the alcohol Guy could manage to get his hands on; the Sheriff had stabbed him far too many times. He couldn't discern whether he was angry at his boss' delight in humiliation, depressed over his losing Marian to his vile enemy in the brush, or terrified like a child over his faintly glowing ember of affection for this new girl. He had a feeling it was a swirling storm of all these issues that spiraled in his mind and was tearing down his sense of sanity. Navigating the staircases were proving strenuous, too, as booze had cut off his ability to control his own feet, much less pilot a straight line. He found himself bumbling into the dungeon to sort the pieces of the puzzle out. Perhaps if he could just talk to Beatrice, he could decipher what these odd feelings were.

Within the humid and dank cellar of stone he saw her cell, which was just opposite the stairs, was empty. Her father sat in his own prison, shelled up in anguish at each yelp coming from one of the torture cells. In his drunken manner Gisborne took longer than usual to assemble the clues but found that he had come down at the beginning of her interrogation for Robin's whereabouts.

Beatrice was chained by both ankles and wrists to the wall in the back, sweating from fear and the fire that heated piping hot metal with which to melt her skin from the bone. One of the captains of the guard had the honor, and obvious pleasure, of extracting information from her this evening.

"I told you I don't know! Please, please, I don't know anything!" Beatrice cried hot tears as her face flushed a burning red.

"You're just a lying bitch," the captain cynically laughed before punching his bare knuckles into her face, "I told you to share where the rest of the plans are!"

"Hey!" GIsborne called as he approached the room. He went up the two steps before entering flawlessly while a craze flew through his eyes. He was the operator of this horrific place; he knew there were no rules, no limits, no lives spared.

"Sir Guy," The guard saluted with wickedness in his grin, "Come to help, eh? This little lady here has no respect for men… I was just about to teach her some."

Beatrice's eyes bugged and let loose a stream of tears as her torturer began to unclasp his belt. Guy felt an unparalleled brute force of rage overwhelm his body. It was as if he had been commandeered by a minotaur as his veins coursed and pounded with blood of contempt. It would certainly not be the first time a prisoner was raped here, but it would certainly not happen to her.

Guy reached his gloved hand over to the fire pit and withdrew a steaming rod, boiling red and orange from its exposure to heat. Its glow reflected upon his face when he raised it up slowly above the guard, who was bent over to remove his trousers. With a deep inhale Guy swung down, bashing the poker into his worker's skull. The man tumbled to the stone floor with an animalistic scream, turning his head to the side. When Gisborne went to pull it out, the hook on the rod had lodged into the bone, making a tearing crunch as he ripped it out of the cranium on the second try. His drunken eyes glazed over as he watched the guard's expression die upon his next swing into the head. He nearly didn't even hear Beatrice yelping in terror on the third strike, either. A pool of matter and blood leaked out between the two from where the back half of the soldier's skull used to be. Guy stuffed the poker back into the flames and went to unhook the girl as the smell and sizzle of boiling blood radiated from the pit.

The pair sped out of the dungeon, finesse less than perfect without Gisborne's sobriety, and fled down the gray stone steps to the courtyard. Workers had no questions for their leader as he snagged a cart horse, unhooked the buggy, and lifted Beatrice onto the back. In a frantic version of romantic fantasy, they rode off out of the gate and charged into the woods. The alcohol in his stomach, though, could not handle the ride for long.

A few minutes into the bush and he was vomiting behind a fallen log whilst Beatrice got her head back together. The night was exceptionally dark and it was difficult to see each other, but once Gisborne was emptied he went to sit across from the frazzled girl. The past twenty four hours had altered her life beyond recognition. She had ridden front seat through flirtatious lunch, accused prisoner, and now escapee all with a cloudiness of misinformation.

"I will not let them hurt you, not for something you didn't do." He panted, dehydrated from his poor choices.

"I don't know what to say… you have returned my minor kindness with all of this. I'm blown away!"

"You are too beautiful and too sweet to fall in with the likes of that castle." He reached over to touch her face and hoped that she was blushing.

"But what now?"

"I don't know… we live. You live. I live. We live… perhaps together?" his drunken string of words was not nearly as poetic as he imagined, "I am a man of wealth. I am a man of title. We can run to France, live without this Sheriff and this damn forest. We can start over!"

"Start over? I guess I never started much of a life in the first place… start over with a handsome man like you? Who could say no?" Beatrice wore her naïve smile as he cupped her hands into his. The alcohol fueled his imagination for greatness as he considered ruling over France.

"We'll go to my cousin's farm, he has a cottage near Carcassonne where we can get started. We can buy anything, do anything, have a million babies!" the glow from his voice matched his face as Beatrice laughed at his joy. In this moment, he was just as foolish as she was. The air fell quiet after she agreed to run away with him. Insects creaked and chimed as drowsiness made its way to their camp.

"I've never seen a man die before. It looked so… so easy."

"It gets easier every time."

"Hm." Beatrice rested her head on his lap. Neither of them said another word before falling off into a heavy slumber, her mind running off with a candied fantasy, and his chugging to combat its way back to sobriety. If only things could actually be as simple as they seemed that night.


End file.
